


a chuisle mo chroí

by ussgallifrey221b



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 14th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Arranged Marriage, Bastardized History, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, F/M, Ireland, Kings & Queens, Middle Ages, Scotland, Strangers to Lovers, king!steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2020-09-24 23:03:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20366569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ussgallifrey221b/pseuds/ussgallifrey221b
Summary: Set in 14th century Scotland, the daughter of a well-standing Clan leader is set to marry a Lord for the betterment of her family’s relations to the Crown. Despite the ongoing rebellions and disdain for the current King, she follows suit and would consider herself lucky to find love along the way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay guys, I was gonna hold off on posting it for a bit, but I’m honestly too excited about this story to hold off any longer. Just know that this one might be a little slower on the updates ❤

The Lord of the Isle had been the keeper of the castle for near twenty years now, inheriting the weight of his Clan’s name after the passing of his own father in the year Twelve Hundred and Eighty. The vast land being returned into their countrymen’s hands after the treaty had been signed by the thieving Norwegian bastards who had stolen them well before their own fathers’ births. Chosen by the English King himself over the handful of other viable and trusted Clans. The 1st Laird of Lochranza had fought in the Holy Land with, and later became a confidant of, the good King. Valued above the rest, favored by the crown - he was graciously awarded the Isle in the Firth of Clyde. And he held the lordship for fourteen years before a MacDonnell put a sword through his gut.

Thus her father ascended to the title and the power that came with it. The 2nd Laird had no sons to his name: the Clan and the castle would go on to his brother and then his nephew. This was the way of it, the way it always had been.

Preened since she was a knee-high lass running through the moors beyond the Loch of her Father’s land. Hair wild and blowing in the gale of the hills and glens she so often roamed. She was free of the worries and burdens that weighed so heavily on her father. 

The few times he would venture out with her on the large black horse he called Arwain, where they would ride up to Goat Fell and perhaps if the sky was kind and the clouds none too dark, they could see the distant land of the Gaels across the Sea. She would pick purple heather from the foothills of Glen Saxxon as he told the story of the fearsome warriors across the way. 

They would eat handfuls of Bilberries as a tale was woven in the wind. And with the wonder only a small child could possess, she was transfixed by the steady lull of his words. A story of a King murdered by his own people, none too long past. He claimed to have seen the gray smoke of burning lands across the channel when he was no older than she.

“Good Kings - _good men_ \- they rule with the firmest of hands, but they protect their people, my love.”

She would stare down at the dirty open palms of her father, calloused and rough from labor and war.

“They’re like rocks,” she had said the one day, sat upon his lap, tiny fingers tracing the lines of his palms.

“Nay,” he had said. “These are paws! You should have seen my father, he was a bear!” And then she was thrown to the ground with a boisterous roar and those same large and rough hands mercilessly tickled her sides.

The King of Gaels had not been a good man, from the stories her father told. If she had been brave enough to sneak down the stairs of the castle, just out of sight of the large deep-voiced men in the Hall, she would hear them speak of the King that governed their lands. Many thought he wasn’t a very good King either.

Her mother, the lady of the keep, would tolerate the journeys out with her father only so long, before the need to mold the mind and manner prevailed. Her adventures into the wild moorland seemed to cease entirely by her tenth year. The firstborn of the Lord and Lady - followed by two sisters younger of age: Aila and Marcail - certain expectations were placed upon her shoulders. The need for a strong alliance being the most prevalent. 

And with that came schooling of language and the requirements of a lady of noble intentions. Proficient in the native tongue of her forebears, the word of the Crown, and the written works of Latin. Talented with needlework and embroidery, capable on the harp, and every necessary domestic skill a woman of her stature would be expected to perform. But her father also had her versed in the studies of arithmancy and she could map out the constellations as well as any sailor.

During the uprising, celebrations were few and far between. But when the fighting had moved south into Eliot territory, a rare call for a feast had been sent to the Isle. The third son of the Lord of Clan Douglas was coming of age. That night, in the large Hall of the even larger man who held the title of leader, John Douglas was celebrated and the feast was as grand as was feasible in the circumstance of wartime struggles.

And somewhere between the overflowing goblets of rich wine and the drowning of music, her father had toasted the other Lord and his youngest boy.

“To Lord Douglas and his son,” goblet raised, voice jovial from drink, “May good fortune come your way and may your sword stay true. I offer my daughter’s hand to you, my young Lord, when she comes of age.”

And the burly man with the red beard had slapped his back with a loud bark, “And join our houses once again, ay? A favorable match, Duncan. A very favorable match. A glass to my son, John! And another to his future bride!”

The young Lord was bashful, suddenly, under her curious gaze. Not yet a woman, she watched the man across the way shuffle and drum his fingers on the table, before he finally met her gaze. And then she was the one blushing like a rose. What a strange feeling to be scrutinized by someone of such age. Eyes dark and lashes full. Hair untamed and loose around the angles of his face. Lips tight, before curling up to a knowing smirk. A look she could grow to love. She had turned away, smiling into her shoulder, and he had laughed before joining in the noise of the evening.

He was dead before the King and the noble lords reached an agreement of loyalty. Somewhere far from the Hall in Galloway, a spear through his stomach, a future never brought to fruition. 

Her father had bent the knee with the other Lords, thanking the great powers that he didn’t have sons of his own to send off into the battlefields of blood. He could sleep safe at night knowing his three girls were tucked up safe in the Castle of the Isle. An invasion force less likely to appear than the sun itself, which always seemed wary of shining on Arran. 

Lands were confiscated for treasonous behavior and as an example. Douglas was beheaded and his name thrown to the wild hounds, never to be spoken again. By past relations alone, they were able to keep their hold on the Isle. Clan unbroken, lands intact, family safe. And then her mother, Liùsaidh - God rest her soul - passed the following year. And the sun refused to appear until her eighteenth name day, two years later.

“My lady?” The voice of the weary nurse echoed through the stone halls.

Stifling a laugh behind her hand, crouched and hidden from view in the stairwell leading to the kitchen, enjoying the long-standing game she was playing. And then Marcail just had to take a far too loud bite of her carrot. When the old woman’s shadow came into view, the three squealed in delight and ran into the servants area. Pushing and sliding past the kitchen staff to escape out the stairs to the courtyard.

“Oh!” Aila skidded to a halt just before she stumbled into the wood pile.

With a grin, she easily pulled her younger sister upright again, “Come now, for our game will soon be over if you continue your missteps.”

The three ran through the bustling courtyard and nearly made it to the stables before Marcail froze - gaze transfixed on the Loch. And then the youngest girl was running towards the shoreline, much to the confusion of her sisters.

With an edge of worry caking her voice, Isobel called for the girl, “Marcail?”

She was spared a quick look over her sister’s shoulder, a smile on the young face, glee in her voice as she shouted, “Father’s back!”

All pretense of the game was quickly shucked to the side as the two sisters joined the trek down to the rocky shore with matching smiles. Making out the white sails of the small ship navigating through the green water of the inlet. With unintentional synchronicity, they shouted at once, “_Father!_”

A figure shifted to the bow of the boat, full black beard and long hair around a pale face and an even greater smile. The love was unable to contain itself to the docks as the man quickly lept from the boat with an unabashed laugh. Surging through the muck and water, dripping from head to foot as he ran forward to sweep them all into his hulking arms.

“Oh, my loves,” he cried with a contented smile. Dropping a kiss to three heads, squeezing just a little bit tighter as he savored the embrace.

A gentle push of his hand and they straightened out, smiling in earnest at his return. But his gaze focused in on his eldest girl, now a woman in her own right. A firm hand cupped her cheek, calloused fingers rubbing the smooth skin, face turned stone in serious contemplation.

“We have much to discuss.”

Several questions began to brew in her mind as they headed back to the castle, where their dear nurse was waiting. Hands on her hips, a reprimand waiting to fall from her lips. They giggled as their father held tight down on their shoulders.

“Oh, perhaps we should head back, aye?”

Her tune changed at the sight of him. “My Lord,” She said with a bowed head.

He strode forward with an air of nobility gracing his shoulders. “I’m sure my girls have been nothing but gracious and well-mannered in my absence,” the wicked smile he threw over his shoulder gave away his honest thoughts on the matter, much to their delight. 

The old nurse had no qualms going toe to toe with the man who had once been in her care however. “About as sweet as a young lad named Duncan, if I recall correctly, My Lord.”

“My dear sweet Margaret, I have no knowledge on who you speak. But I’m sure he was a sweet lad, handsome even,” he smiled thoughtfully, running a hand through the hairs of his dark beard.

She raised her head, chin tilted up with a challenging tone, “A little too confident in his ways, I think.”

Before he could choke out another witty reply, a series of footsteps and an airy voice pulled their attention to the open gates, “Surely you’re only speaking good things of me, Margaret. No, please. By all means, carry on! I’ll never shy from your praises.”

“Why, Anthony Sta- “

“Cousin!” Aila shrieked, pulling from their Father’s hold to run into the waiting arms of the younger man.

Isobel pulled away gently from her father’s firm hold after Marcail also ran to greet the visitor. An apologetic smile on her lips as the Lord watched with misted eyes. Something seemed to be brewing in his mind as well, but that was a conversation that could wait just a while longer. 

She cocked her head as she strode up in front of him, “My dear cousin, Anthony. Here we sit for two years without a word of affection and you expect us to fawn over you like a lost herd of sheep at this most surprising of visits?”

He smirked over the heads of the two girls in his arms, “It would not be unwelcome, cousin.”

She reached a curious hand out, fingertips just grazing the beginnings of a magnificent beard. “Time has been kind to you, it would seem.”

Aila and Marcail loosened their grips, pulling to either side of him with a hand on his back. He gazed at her from skirts to braids. “And you,” he smiled gently. In it, she could see why many maidens fell from his charms. “Does it please you to know my journey was safe?”

Isobel clicked her tongue, “Should it please me, cousin?”

His eyes glinted playfully in the few rays of sunlight peeking through the clouds overhead, but he gave no further remark. A true testament to how time had changed him from the rueful boy she had known just a few years prior.

A steady hand dropped to her shoulder as her father stepped near. “Come,” he said with a terse smile, “This man needs food and drink.”

“Has he not had enough?” Aila muttered softly under her breath. Isobel shoved a rough elbow into her side, but struggled to hide her own smirk as her father escorted the young Lord into the castle.

A boy, no more than sixteen, struggled up to the gate with a large chest in his arms before she even made it to the stone steps. Warm brown hair under the round white cap. Anthony turned back at the sound of his approach, a look of amusement pulling at his lips. “Come now, Peter. I’m sure my cousin could handle your duties with little difficulty and she is but eleven.”

The boy was quick to bow his head, “Yes, m’Lord.”

She took pity on the young lad, glancing between the wooden chest and the red-faced squire. “Perhaps if my cousin felt we could provide him with a comfortable stay, he would have little need to bring the entirety of his Earthly possessions with him.”

Anthony balked at the implication, moving towards her with a quickened step, “You wouldn’t deny your favorite cousin - “ she couldn’t help the warm laugh that escaped her lips, which he savored thoroughly, “the luxury of a few familiar pieces. Or that of a present for a particular name day?”

And now she was the one quickly brought to a balking expression.

He seized the chance to step forward once more, “As much as I enjoy visiting this distant island of yours, I do not journey far for anything but the promise of a good party. And dear uncle has promised something rather extravagant it seems.” Playfully pulling the loose hair at the bottom of her plaited braid, he smirked up at her through long lashes.

With a purposeful straightening of her back, she gazed down at the older man, “Anthony Stark, your brashness will be your downfall.”

His smile was as bright as the sails of the ship he arrived on. With a low bow, he laughed, “And what a glorious end it will be! Come cousin, you must forgive my memory, but I’m afraid it’s been quite long since my last visit and I’m unsure if I’ll be able to traverse this strange keep on my own.”


	2. Chapter 2

The halls were alive with the bustle of servants and maids, a bit of bounce in their step as they prepared for the evening festivities; relishing in the rare celebration. The castle somehow felt brighter than usual - the island too. The sun, it seemed, had felt generous in its nature by allowing the warm rays to break through the heavy clouds and shine down upon the inhabitants of Arran.

And as they weaved through the workers, her arm looped through Anthony’s as he scrutinized every person and corner with a sour look about him, she couldn’t help the fond smile from spreading across her face.

“Are you implying that our accommodations are less than appealing for someone of such…” she searches through the air for the right phrasing, “… _high society_?”

His laugh is warm and rich, just like his robes. It echoes off the walls and flows across the hall like the tide at dawn. 

With a thoughtful tilt of the head, he muses, “More than accommodating, my dear cousin. Perhaps a little dreary, dank. Small, in comparison.” He flashes a wide grin.

She bats his chest playfully, pulling back from the leisurely embrace. “Tell me again, cousin, how grand is Clan Stark’s keep?”

He bows his head, a shake of laughter resonating off his shoulders. “It has neither the view nor beauty of maidens fair as this.”

She stows her face to resolute blankness. “Compliments will only get you so far in this world - ”

“And yet here I stand before you.”

Conceding with a shake of her head, “By the grace of God, perhaps. Or the stubbornness of your own will, I cannot decide.”

He says nothing, gives nothing away but a flicker of something sad in his eyes. It’s there for a moment, like the ripples of a stone thrown into the Loch, before it washes away and the usual bright amusement settles into place. 

He seems to take in the great Hall in that quiet moment of reflection. The simple banners and garlands being placed on the walls and tables. The scurrying of servants rushing to fulfill the long list of tasks. And then his gaze falls somewhere behind her, sharpens in its intensity.

“Peter! Come now, gawking at finer grandeur will not place my things in their chambers.”

The boy bows his head quickly, a flush of scarlet upon his cheeks as he squeaks out a, “Yes, m’ lord.”

Anthony waves him off. “Good lad,” As his squire tows his large trunk out of the hall, inquiring with one of the servants for the location of the guest chambers.

They both watch with an amused look as he bumps and struggles to get through the doorway without dropping the trunk. She sidles up next to and playfully bumps Anthony’s arm with her side.

“You have surprised me, cousin.”

With wandering eyes, voice distant as if other things require his attention, “Oh, have I?”

She hums pleasantly, wrapping her hands around his arm as she guides him towards the high table. “Two years without you _gallivanting_ around has soured my mood entirely. It’s pleasing to have your presence gracing our humble halls once again.”

Dropping her arms from their gentle hold, he taps a rushed beat against the stained wood of the table with his hand. Eyes fixed on the decor already set up for the family.

“By no coincidence am I here. Your father found my broken body on the way back from the fealty to Edward. Better to save myself a tongue lashing from my father dear. Though,” he pauses, face drawn serious, “I have missed your company. I admit, my presence here was not for a name day alone.”

When she does not request more elaboration, he stands a bit straighter, lets his hand fall to her shoulder.

“Whether by invitation or not, I’m glad you came,” she says delicately, soothing over the hidden wounds of his mind.

Grabbing her hand, he places a chaste kiss just upon her knuckles, “You were always my favorite cousin, you know.”

Pulling her hand back with a scoff, “You can’t let Marcail hear you speak such words - she would be devastated!”

Mirroring her earlier movements, he loops his arm through hers and guides his cousin towards the doorway to the chambers. “Then keep them to yourself, sweet cousin. Lock them away in your heart and give them to no one. You may just need them again someday.”

Tilting her head with curiosity as they walk, robes sweeping through the stone archway. “Do I have trying times in my future, cousin Anthony?”

The tight press of his lips speaks more than actual words could. No matter how sweet he could sew them together in a soliloquy of comfort, his expression warns her of a knowing dread. He’s privy to more than he can say. And to see such worry befall him at her expense, sends a chill to her heart.

He nudges her side gently with his elbow. “It saddened me greatly to have missed the funeral.”

Her expression softens as the ebb of memories flows through her mind. A rainy day. Clothes soaked and cold against pale skin. Broken expressions around a hole in the Earth. A body wrapped in white shroud.

“You had your own duties to attend to,” she says softly, unwilling to let a louder tone break the dam holding back unshed tears.

“And yet,” he slows, pulling her back with a gentle tug, “I think, had I not been a mindless pawn in my father’s hand, I could have stood beside you that day.”

A broken smile graces her lips as he wipes a stray tear away with his thumb.

“Yes, I think my presence could have lightened the mood, so to say.” He glances around the corridor, “Maybe hired new servants. How do you stand to live in this squalor? Tell me,” he grabs her shoulders playfully, “Who has fooled you into believing this is normal?”

Shoving his hands away with a laugh, she quickly wipes a lone tear from her cheek.

“I wish I knew, cousin. Though, I don’t think I could find anywhere but here to call home.”

A sudden frown appears on his face, which he tries to cover with a tight smile, but it’s already shown its true colors. She can not contain her curiosity for a moment longer. Pulling at his hand, she pleads.

“Tell me what weighs upon your mind, Anthony. You know something yet you refuse to say what - ”

He pulls from her hold, albeit reluctantly. “It’s not my place to say, Isobel.”

She staggers back, meeting the cool stone wall with a soft _thud_. “My father - ”

He steps forward with intent clear in his dark eyes, “Would be discouraged to see you upset by things left unspoken. And more so at the knowledge that I’ve caused you despair.”

“Not you,” rushing to clarify, “But that which you know. It holds itself over you like a storm cloud. And yes, that frightens me. But only because I see the equal fear in your eyes.”

He strides backwards, a hand clamped over his mouth and the dark bristled hair of his beard. 

“I will not, ” he starts then stops, a war playing in his mind. Holding up a single finger; warning and promise all at once, “I will not plague you with this. You must know, it is not my place to - ”

“And when have you kept to the formalities and rules of this life?”

His eyes flash, “Since _this_. Knowing your fate and where it will take you. Please,” he surges forward once more. Cupping her hands between his two, much larger ones. “Spare me the pain of breaking your heart. I have neither the grace nor power to stand it.”

Carefully observing the crestfallen expression, she concedes with a heavy drop of her head. He lets out a weary sigh of relief. Though it is all for naught. The fact that a secret is being withheld from her still lingers in the air, stings the senses and sours the appetite.

With shuttering steps, she makes towards the stairwell, “I trust you can find your own chambers, cousin.”

Anthony goes to speak, her name perhaps, but seems to think better of it at the last moment. Rocking back on his feet, hands placed carefully behind him, he gives a small bow with his head, face unreadable. Refusing to spare his appearance more than a second of her time, she climbs the stone steps to the upper floor. Heart racing at the volley of troubling scenarios her mind rattles off.

* * *

Given the choice, the room across the hall had been a wondrous option for a young girl. The window overlooking the Loch brought a story-like view of the coming and going ships. The crashing storm waves, the calm waters. A mystery to it all, perhaps. What lay beyond that far blue horizon?

She was not one for the fanciful thoughts of a wee lass whose place in the world was not yet settled. Dreaming of a dashing young sailor who would whisk her off with tales of mystical lands with selkies and sirens. Someone to decorate her with precious jewels that once belonged to a great Sultan or King. 

No, when given that choice, she selected the room that faced the moors. Her day spent dreaming by the window would have her riding far past the boundaries of the village. A day well spent circling the island she called home. Basking in the beauty of the natural wonders Arran offered. A rare opportunity to escape the cold clutches of the castle.

With an impending celebration and the lingering dread that her conversation with Anthony brought, she found yourself - yet again - poised in front of the narrow window. The moors were a lush green this time of year. She could make out the specks of peasants and visitors that lined the village streets.

An exciting thought fills her mind. How she could dash down the stairs right at this moment, clamber aboard one of her father’s horses, and ride out one last time. Perhaps not even returning in time for her name day feast. But, alas, those were the fanciful thoughts of a girl - not a lady. And within the hour, she was to be announced as the Lady of the Keep.

The creak of her chamber door opening startles her from such thoughts as Margaret bustles in.

“Look at you, lying about. A lady will appear presentable at all times, even in her private chambers. Is that understood?”

She’s quick to stand, ironing out her skirts with her hands.

“Right,” she studies the young woman’s face for a moment. “We haven’t long to tidy you up. Let’s start on that nest of hair.”

The older woman cracks a small smile and Isobel can feel herself relaxing as she takes a seat at the small table. Margaret’s wrinkled fingers are steady as she brushes out her braids. With an unprompted cringe at a rough tug of hair, she bats her hand away.

“Eighteen years I’ve brushed your hair down and you still act as though I plan to rip those locks right off your head, girl.”

There’s a defeated slouch to her shoulders. Margaret slows her brushing down.

“You best spit it out while you can.”

It takes a moment of hesitation as the words naw at her lips, stumble around in her head. It all comes out in a rather undignified rush.

“Do you know?” Turning in the chair to read her face, Isobel presses on. “Do you know what’s to become of me?”

There’s a small sigh as the nurse drops the brush to her side. Her mother’s brush. Followed by an old voice riddled with irritation. 

“I would see you to go on to be a lady without the need to question everything around herself.”

With a frustrated shake of her head, Isobel stands from the wooden chair. Hands balled into a worrying fist.

“Anthony knows and I think you perhaps are wary to my future. It seems those near to me would rather I… _gallivant_ around like a partier today, with a drunken smile planted here across my face. But I would rather know what my fate is planned to be.”

Margaret stares at her hard and long. The same withering look that would bring her spilling out truths as a young child. She strides forward with a warning finger pointed out. 

“It would be wise to leave the worrying to another night. There are guests downstairs who have traveled farther than you would believe to be present tonight. For _your_ festivities, my child. Anthony is well meaning, but out of line.” Her hand reaches out to cup her face in a rare sign of affection.

Brown eyes soften, wrinkles more prominent than ever before. Cautiously, Margaret cups her hand with the Isobel’s, pressing it further against her check.

“I’m scared,” she admits with a shuttering quake.

There’s a reassuring nod, followed by a gentle voice, “You will get through this night with your head held high and a smile. You are a woman of Arran. No matter what.”

With a little more force, she guides Isobel back to the chair to straighten out her hair into pleated braids. Helps her into a more suitable dress. Covers her hair with a well-loved veil from her late mother’s wardrobe.

And when she holds up the decorative hand mirror for Isobel to see, she could almost convince herself that she was a lady at last.

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on my [Tumblr](https://ussgallifreyfics.tumblr.com).


End file.
